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The UPS store is little more than a cupboard, and as I step inside, it’s empty, save for Mike, the guy who works behind the counter most days.
“Hey, Beth!” He grins at me, then does a comical double take when he sees that I am alone. “Where’s my man Dylan?”
I swallow, try to smile. I hadn’t anticipated this, although I suppose I should have. Mike is probably the person Dylan and I know best—Mike and also Sue, the main librarian in the children’s department of the West Hartford Library, who is patient with him, and even makes sure she has books set aside that she knows he likes.
As for Mike—I’ve been coming to this store for nearly five years, always with Dylan, and Mike is almost always behind the desk. We’ve developed a rapport of sorts, little more than chitchat, but Dylan likes him, and Mike is unfazed by his silence and shyness, chatting to him easily even when Dylan is half-hiding behind me, saying nothing.
“He’s…” I stop before I’ve even begun, because I don’t want to tell Mike what has happened, and also because I might cry.
Mike’s forehead crinkles with concern. “He isn’t sick, is he?” he asks, his voice sharpening with alarm. My expression must be stricken. “He isn’t hurt?”
“No. At least…” I don’t think he is, but the truth is, I don’t know. Did he sleep last night? Did he cry? Does he understand any part of this?
“Beth?” Mike looks really worried now. “What’s happened?”
“He’s been taken by DCF.” I see his confusion and I clarify dully, “The Department of Children and Families. He’s been put into foster care.” It’s both a relief and a torment to say this, because I don’t want Mike to look at me the way the woman across the street did, the way the doctors always did when I went to those appointments, the way anyone does when you explain that DCF has involved themselves in your child’s life. The judgment, so badly masked—the narrowed eyes, the slight lip curl, the prim straightening of the shoulders, all layered over with a cheap patina of sympathy.
But Mike doesn’t look that way. He looks only concerned, and then I realize I am crying, tears trickling down my cheeks as I dump my packages on the counter so I can wipe my face.
“I’m sorry…” I choke out.
“You don’t need to be sorry. What happened?”
“I lost my temper in CVS and someone called DCF. They said they were taking Dylan away from me.”
“What!” Mike swells up with outrage, his chest puffing out. He’s about my age, late twenties, with a round, homely face and a slightly chubby but still muscular build. I’ve always thought he’s the sort of person who actually looks kind, and right now he is and I can’t bear it. “Surely they can’t do that—”
“They can. And, anyway, it’s more complicated than it sounds.” I don’t want him thinking that this was a one-time thing, totally out of the blue, when it wasn’t. Even if it felt completely unfair.
“Complicated? How?”
I look behind me, but no one is coming into the store.
Mike props his elbows on the counter. “You can tell me, Beth.”
But I don’t want to, because I don’t want Mike to think badly of me. And yet it would be such a relief to talk to someone, to tell them what has happened. And so it all spills out, in fits and starts, a jumbled mess of fragmented stories—Marco calling DCF, the one trip to that psychiatrist, and then the whole thing about school, how the neighbors must have said stuff, and how Susan thinks she’s trying to help.
“She took him yesterday afternoon. He was screaming, and then he just went so still…” I cover my mouth to keep the sobs in. I feel as if I could cry and cry and never stop, but I don’t want to, and certainly not in the middle of the UPS store.
Mike shakes his head slowly. “This can’t be right. I mean, you’re a good mom, Beth. I see that every time you come in here with Dylan. He adores you, and you love him. You’re a great mom.”
Different tears prick my eyes, tears of gratitude. It feels so good to have him say this, to have him mean it, after everything that happened yesterday. Until Mike said it, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d started to doubt myself. To feel like I really was the failure Susan made me feel.
“I want to get him back as soon as I can,” I tell Mike. “I don’t even know where he is.”
“They shouldn’t be able to do that.” Mike shakes his head again, looking so wonderfully aggrieved on my behalf. “They really shouldn’t. Have you talked to a lawyer?”
“No.” I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that.
“You should. I’m sure you must have that right, before they took him away. They can’t just grab him like that. At least, I don’t think they can.”
“Susan—the case worker—said she’d gotten a court order, but it was only good for ninety-six hours.”
“Then you can get him back after that?”
“I—I don’t know. She was going to explain everything to me, but then she left so quickly.”
“That can’t be right, either.”
